Bearing the cross during Advent

This morning we had one of those Masses that leaves the sacristan feeling like she barely escaped with her life. The cross-bearer forgot to bear the cross. The organist couldn’t find the music for the final hymn. And there were a couple of other heart-stopping moments.

Heart-stopping if you’re a sacristan, that is. Hopefully no one else was aware that the cross was carried by someone who, as Mass was about to begin, realized that the cross-bearer was contemplatively settled in a pew far, far away. Hopefully no one else noticed that the flautist suddenly stopped 'flauting' and began searching for missing music amongst the stacks at the organ. And hopefully no one else noticed the couple of other sacristan-heart-stopping moments.

Yet from my perspective as sacristan and flautist, it was, strangely enough, the perfect opening for Advent, this season of preparing for the coming of the Lord. No matter how well we prepare, we are human. Things go awry. We lose the music amongst the music. We lose ourselves in contemplation. We prepare and prepare, yet when the lights are turned on and the candles are lit, we still need each other to help us carry the cross and sing the song.

As we prepare our hearts for the coming of the Lord, it's good to be reminded of our emptiness. It's good to be reminded of just how much we need our Lord, and need each other. And it's good to be reminded of the many ways in which the Lord comes to us. Sometimes it's in the guise of the one who helps another to bear her cross and sing her song.

Postscript: Today during lunch someone said "That was a beautiful Mass." Inwardly, the sacristan smiled. She had escaped with her life.

Beginning again...

It’s that time of year. Tonight at Vespers we enter the season of Advent, beginning another round of the Church year, another cycle in which we encounter the Lord through the seasons of the liturgy, always beginning again, yet moving ever deeper into life in Christ.

The liturgical year is not a mere remembrance, or commemoration, of events from the life of Christ. We are not spectators. We are not watching a drama. Rather, in the seasons of the liturgical cycle the life of Christ unfolds, both drawing us into His life, and pouring life into us. Through times and seasons, we encounter the Eternal One.

We are able to see the seasons of our own life in light of the seasons of Christ’s life. In our own times of watchful waiting, we recognize the season of Advent and trust in the coming of our Savior. In our own times of desolation, we recognize Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, and know that He is with us in our pain. In our own times of resurrection, we recognize God’s abounding power and grace.

As the liturgical cycle ends and begins, I’ve posted below some circular/cyclical images from around the monastery, taken in different seasons. Also, a brief excerpt from a wonderful poem by Gertrude von LeFort entitled The Holy Year:

...Bow down, O years, and stand still ye months, take
the shoes from off your feet ye wandering days!
For Eternity is speaking to my soul...

My pilgrim boat

Day after day, I return to the same wooden choir stall. Nothing much changes. I chant the same Psalms from the same books in a set four-week cycle, the pattern broken only for feasts and solemnities. I make the sign of the cross at certain, unchanging, times. I bow at the same phrases. The same three hymnals remain anchored in front of me. Day after day, morning and evening, I climb into the boat, hoist my sails, and go nowhere. From afar, the whole effort might seem like a fool’s errand. But from up close, anchored in the boat, the journey is ceaseless, and the vista ever-changing.

We generally think of pilgrims as those who journey across land or sea, moving from here to there as part of a spiritual quest. Movement seems inherent to the notion of pilgrimage. Thus, you might think of monastics, with our commitment to stability, as the antithesis of a pilgrim. Not so. We are indeed pilgrims, but our journey is inward, not outward, and for us, pilgrimage is a way of life, not a singular event. The commitment to stability and fidelity, rather than anchoring us in passive immobility, actually creates an environment – a vessel, if you will – that frees us for an inner pilgrimage of ceaselessly moving deeper and deeper into transformation in Christ. The monastic liturgy, the arrangement of the monastic day, and the community life advocated by our Benedictine Rule are all integral to fostering the continual monastic journey of seeking God. They form the ship in which we sail.

I have returned to the same choir stall and the same set of books thousands of times. It has yet to get boring,and I have yet to chant the same Psalm twice, not because the Psalms have changed, but because I have changed. Just as genuine pilgrimage has a transformative effect the spiritual traveler, the inner pilgrimage of monastic life has a transformative effect on the monastic. Each time I encounter a Psalm I encounter it in light of my ongoing conversion in Christ. The Psalms don’t change, the Psalms change me.

In about an hour, I’ll walk up to chapel for Vespers and sit down in the same wooden choir stall - my pilgrim boat - that I sat in this morning. I will chant the same set of Psalms I chanted four weeks ago. With sail hoisted, I'll be rounding the next bend of my ceaseless pilgrim journey into the heart of God.

Breaking open the day

 If someone handed me colors and a brush and asked me to paint a picture of this day, I would paint the pomegranate that spilled its riches across a platter at lunch this afternoon.

We’re not accustomed to having pomegranate around here, but it was on sale at a local market and one was purchased and sliced and arranged on a platter for lunch. Nearly everyone paused as they passed, with some partaking and some not, but all admiring the festively-colored seeds spread across the plate like a meadow in bloom.

The day has been like that, a ripe fruit broken open by the sun and sowing its seeds across the hours – seeds of prayer, work, leisure, Sacred Scripture, laughter with an employee, prayerful concern for someone undergoing surgery, thanksgiving for the gift of music on this memorial of St. Cecilia… Beautiful seeds all, some muted, some richly colored, all opening like blossoms across the hours of the day.

And now, nighttime. Supper dishes have been put away. Our easy laughter and conversation over dinner have ceased. The Psalms of Compline have been recited. It’s time to slip into the ripening darkness of night, until we break into the hours of a new day.

A baker's dozen

One flashlight, two hammers, three phone calls, four screwdrivers, five Sisters, and a dozen or so vigorous kicks… It took all that and a dedicated employee to free a Sister and a guest who were trapped behind a stuck door in the basement of Ottilia Hall late this afternoon.

We tried everything.  Removing door knobs didn’t help. Passing tools through the basement window to remove interior door hinges didn’t help. Spirited kicks and some fairly athletic moves against the now-unhinged door didn’t work. The old credit card trick didn’t work. It was either break the glass window of the door, which was too small to be of much help anyway, or remove the door frame. A dedicated staff member returned to work and pried off enough of the door frame to – at last! – push the door open.

It takes all of us around here, and sometimes more than all of us. This afternoon, we experienced the abundance of a ‘baker’s dozen’ in many ways – the good-natured attitude of our guest, the dedicated employee who returned to work after having already departed for home, and most of all the grace of the Spirit that animates and enlivens and keeps us joyful and at peace even when we’re “stuck” in a trying situation.

Postscript: The one tool we were missing? A camera! Here's a photo from the aftermath...

The view from a hallway on a Friday evening

When you imagine a monastery, I’m not sure what picture comes to your mind, but here’s the view I had last evening as I stood on a chair in a hallway and pulled things off a closet shelf for a Sister that needed a hand.

It was mid-evening. Vespers and supper were long over. We had prayed Compline and the community was now dispersed into our various living areas. I was in the Community Room on my floor. Down the hall, a Sister was crocheting. Another was reading. A couple of others were visiting. I left to walk to my room, saw a Sister gazing somewhat helplessly at the top shelf of a hallway closet, and I stopped to grab a chair and lend a hand. Any of us would have done it; I just happened to be the one who came along.

So standing on a chair in a hallway on a Friday evening, the view was this: a community at peace, relaxed yet attentive, some gathered in quiet community, some absorbed in the silence of the evening, some of us tending together to a simple task, for all of us the prayers of Compline still echoing in our hearts… The view was of a community enjoying company, appreciating solitude, gladly helping one another… The view was of the monastery as we experience it – not as an edifice, but as our home.


Postscript: Today, Saturday, the view is of attentive listening and thoughtful speech as we gather for our Fall Community Meetings. It is so good to have our mission Sisters home at the monastery!

Signs and 'wanders'

It seems that with any gathering of people, a gathering of signs inevitably follows, and the monastery is no exception. If you were to wander around our house, you would see signs aplenty. Posted at various places are prayer requests, sign-up sheets, instructions, reminders, thank you notes, meeting minutes, interesting articles, monastic labora assignments, and on and on.

Mostly, our communication takes place on a person-to-person level – whether one-on-one, at table, at work, in living groups, or in the gathered community. But posted signs are a kind of shorthand that helps keep us organized, on track, and informed.

Our signs are mostly functional and mundane, dealing with the day-to-day practicalities of life in community. Yet I would venture to say that there’s something in our postings that transcends mere practicality. Underlying our varied signage is a kind of monastic decorum rooted in respect for individuals and a desire to create an atmosphere that is conducive to seeking God.

An essential element of monastic life is a kind of graceful orderliness. It’s not a regimental sort of order. Rather, it’s more like a well-crafted work of art that has a pleasing proportionality, a balanced composition of color and shape, yet is able to move and flow and accommodate the spontaneous, the unexpected, and the seasons of life. A well-placed reminder or a timely bit of information helps us keep our common life well-balanced and peacefully composed, as well as creating a welcoming environment in which we can receive the guest as Christ. These are signs of kindness, signs that help us navigate well as we wander through life, and as we welcome those who wander.

Yet more importantly than creating a contemplative environment, our signs illustrate the value that we place on people, on communicating well, on making sure that everyone gets the message, that everyone is informed. Each Sister matters, and we want everyone to have the opportunity to read the thank you note, the meeting minutes, the reminder about a special gathering, the congratulatory message, the program from an event a Sister attended… These are the kinds of things that help create not just a monastic environment, but a monastic community. These are signs of love, signs that remind us we are not wandering alone.

Our various signs are rooted in our Benedictine values. Individual postings may point toward a practical end, but they also point toward a greater end of a balanced, peaceful, loving atmosphere in which we can seek God together, wandering as one through the seasons of life in harmonious, compassionate community.

Carpenter of light

This morning after Lauds, I lingered in the chapel to pray for a bit. As I departed, I noticed sunlight falling across the statue of St. Joseph, illuminating his solemn hands in a way that I’d not noticed before. I’ve been thinking about St. Joseph ever since, thinking about his hands of light, thinking that in life he could probably have constructed, made, built, designed, created, formed most anything worth making in wood. But he could not construct light. He could not form that which falls upon us as pure gift.

But then again, did he not abide with the Light of the world, and in his own way pass that light along through what he constructed, made, designed, created, formed?

With St. Joseph on my mind today, I’ve been noticing myself and my Sisters as we work. I’ve seen Sr. Magdalena at the organ, Sr. Janet Marie counseling a Sister, Sr. Kathleen at work in the kitchen, Sr. Treva returning from a meeting, Sr. Emilie preparing books for Mass, Sr. Therese assisting an elder, Sr. Sara Aiden coming home after a day of teaching school…and myself, diligent in my various undertakings. None of us created light today, yet Dawn fell on each of us, and abiding in that Light, we each sought to pass the Light along in our varied ways.

As sunlight illumines our mornings, the Light of the world comes to us as pure gift. We cannot create it. But we are each called to take the light that falls upon us and be a carpenter of light, helping make, design, build, form, create the kingdom of God, passing along the Light of the world through holy labor and ceaseless prayer.

Departure and Arrival

It seems that history - both of the world and of individuals - can be seen as the history of arrivals and departures. We turn a knob, step through a doorway, unpack our bags and say that we’re home, only to eventually depart toward another arrival. We are drawn to thresholds as to a magnet. We cross town, or cross seas. We go ‘round the bend, or ‘round the world. Whether near or far, we spend our lives hoisting sails even as we drop anchors. Arrival and departure are part of our story.

Today, on All Souls Day, we commemorated the faithful departed, those who sought the Lord in the midst of the many comings and goings of life. Here at the monastery, we had our traditional procession to the cemetery for Vespers. We read aloud the names of our departed Sisters whose fidelity to monastic life led them to drop an anchor for a lifetime here at Sacred Heart. Yet within the anchor of monastic fidelity, there is a continual crossing of thresholds. Our call to conversion of heart leads us ever onward, hoisting inner sails and crossing inward seas, always en route, even as we remain anchored in monastic fidelity and love of Christ. The Sisters in our cemetery are revered examples to us of both stability and conversion, of courageous departure and faithful arrival.

At the close of Vespers, we sang the Ultima, the traditional funeral hymn of monastics and many other religious. The Ultima speaks to both departure and arrival, of turning a knob, stepping inside, unpacking our bags, and knowing that we are home.




Ultima in mortis hora,
Filium pro nobis ora,
Bonam mortem impetra,
Virgo, Mater, Domina.


(At our life's last moment fleeting,
Thine own Son for us entreating,
May we Christ with thee embrace,
Virgin Mother, grant this grace!)

Everyday Saints

Yesterday, just in time for the Solemnity of All Saints, I returned to the monastery following my family visit. I drove for hours and hours across the Deep South along roads that flowed like a line of chant through cotton fields and woodlands, towns and cities. The towns formed a kind of litany along the way: Summerville, Bamberg, Denmark, Williston, Augusta, Madison, Atlanta, Bremen, Cedartown, Piedmont, Gadsden, Walnut Grove, Holly Pond, Cullman…

After a drive that felt endless, I pulled into the monastery parking lot just a few minutes before the Vigil of All Saints. Sister Dominica welcomed me as I entered, Sister Benita helped me carry my luggage up the final flight of stairs, and then I went straight to chapel. We chanted the Litany of the Saints, and as Sister Lynn Marie intoned the names of saint after saint, I thought about the litany of towns I had just driven through, places to live, of course, but also places in which to minister, to heal, to help, to love as Christ loved, to serve as the saints served.

We often think of saints as other-worldly, but they, too, lived and prayed and worked in towns and cities, on farms and in schools, in woodlands and in deserts. As we honor the saints today, let us follow their example, laboring within the vineyard of our own villages, towns, cities, and circumstances.


A Simple Litany for Everyday Saints in Everyday Places

O Holy Ones of Summerville, heal the sick.

Citizens of Denmark, clothe the poor.

Saints of Augusta, feed hungry ones.

Christians of Atlanta, support the weak.

Inhabitants of Bremen, free the bound.

People of Cedartown, touch deaf ears.

Holy Ones of Gadsden, heal blind eyes.

Saints of Cullman, be the love of God.

In all towns and cities, help the poor.

To the lonely and sorrowing, give comfort sure.

For the sick and dying, be the touch of Christ.

Among aliens and strangers, welcome all.

For peoples of the world, pray for peace.

In all times and places, serve the Lord.

In fields and forests, praise the Lord.

In all circumstances, thank the Lord.

With holy labor, bless the Lord.

With ceaseless prayer, seek the Lord.

With all creation, sing to the Lord.

Angels and archangels, pray for us.

All saints of the Lord, pray for us.

All citizens of heaven, pray for us.

Lord Jesus, hear our prayer...